


spoils

by bonebo



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Second Person, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7325158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes to the battles of kings, nothing is ever simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spoils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookles](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=spookles).



"You say the price of my love's not a price that you're willing to pay.” The King's voice is low, thoughtful—a shade of the anger he's capable of, just a glimpse of the fury you've seen from him. As it is his voice still carries through the throne room, dark like the black banners of the Haywood house that hang on the walls, sharp as the sword at his waist. “We made an arrangement, when you went to the First Kingdom. Do you remember?”

You shudder as you recall— _Haywood's hands tight and warm on your hips, holding you close. His voice in your ear, saying “The First may enjoy you...I have no power to keep him from you. But when push comes to shove, you are mine, and only mine.”_

"Yes, my King,” you manage to choke out, tongue like lead and heart hammering against your throat—it had been you on a horse and a map in your hands, your destination being the realm of the First King, Ramsey. A simple quest, initially.

But when it comes to the battles of kings, nothing is ever simple.

__

You receive a summons two days later.

It's a roll of parchment delivered by a boy you don't know, wax seal bearing a wolf surrounded by diamonds: the seal of the First. You don't know if the Mad King has seen it or not—some traitorous part of you hopes he hasn't—and your hands shake as you break the seal, read over the words the First King has written to you, _for_ you, meant for you alone.

It's a declaration of love.

There's long words and flourished penstrokes, grand sweeping loops and sharp serifs; but under the fancy penmanship is a raw confession of feeling, of adoration and desire and _need,_ and it's enough to steal your breath away. You re-read the scroll once, twice, three times—each time the emotion in the letter hits you harder than the last—and by the time you've reached the king's signature at the bottom of the page for the third time you make a decision. 

You're going.

No sooner have the words settled in your mind than you hear footsteps; and it's Ryan, striding into the room with purpose, black cape trimmed in red and billowing out behind him. 

Your first thought is that he looks incredibly regal—and your second is that he looks furious.

"I know what that letter is,” he says suddenly, heated gaze leaving your face to briefly dart down and glare at the scroll still in your hands; when you're back in his line of sight, you notice his eyes look crazed. “I know who it's from, and what it says. You're not going.”

You raise a brow at that—you are not his squire, not his queen. You have no obligation to stay where he commands; and why would you, when this is the kind of madness you're subjected to?

 _"I can treat you better,”_ the first king's letter says, and you believe it.

\---

You watch from a distance, locked away behind the safety of the crest of the First, as the Mad King makes his case.

It starts with scrolls carried by ravens painted red, rolls of parchment full of sugar-coated words and promises of devotion—you read them until they're memorized and hold them close to your heart, sometimes catch yourself wanting to believe, but then the memories—rage and crimson splashes, the glimmer of madness in soft blue eyes—surge up like a tide to knock it all away.

You eventually throw the parchments into the fireplace and watch them curl black, burn to ash. 

And the corpses start soon after.

It's the First that alerts you of their presence—throws open the bedroom drapes and stares out the window at the bodies, strung up on crosses and daubed with bold red letters that spell out your name. He curses softly, looks to you with wide eyes, and it's in that one singular moment that you feel honestly afraid; because if this is how the Mad King shows his affection, what will happen to you when that love changes to something less fond?

“I have to go,” you say, words spilling out of you in a rush as you get to your feet, panic making your heart race—and then the First's hands on your wrists, making you startle until you look to him and remind yourself _he is not that King,_ he is the First King, the Just King, and he is giving you a look you can only describe as heartbroken.

“You can't.” His voice is soft, but under the care is a promise—his sword will go to protect you, you know, and he hasn't lasted this long by making such a vow lightly. “You have to stay here. This is where you'll be safe.”

“Safe from—from _that?”_ You gesture to the window, to the bodies hanging beyond; the sickening display of devotion. “He's mad, he won't stop, he'll send a fully-armed battalion next--”

“And my men will handle it, like they have handled dozens before,” the First says calmly, laying an arm over your shoulders and guiding you out of the room, away from the window—back into the heart of his chambers, the safety offered there. You cling to his shirt and try not to shake. 

“The wrath of the Mad King cannot reach you here.”


End file.
